


Haze

by ussgallifrey221b



Series: To Build a Home [14]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chronic Pain, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ussgallifrey221b/pseuds/ussgallifrey221b
Summary: Most days are manageable. Most days are fine. But some days, when the weather sours and the sky grays, the pain seeps through the cracks like run-off rain water.





	Haze

It wasn't unusual to wake to an empty bed. In fact, it was rather normal. Lazy stretches under warm sheets, hands drifting across the bed to find an empty spot that had once been briefly inhabited by your husband. And you would wake slowly, or as slowly as three children would allow you. Unfurling from the tight curl of your body, feeling the stretch all the way to your toes that kicked against the blankets at the end of the bed. Eventually, your eyes would open and adjust to the morning light and you would find yourself rising to the smell of coffee drifting up from the kitchen.

Bucky would have been up for hours by the time you would wander downstairs. It used to bother you to not wake up in his arms. But he assured you, between nightmares and the need to get up and move and do something, he was hard-pressed to stay in bed any longer than to trace your features in the purple light of the early morning.

He had a workout to do, maybe some last-minute chores that were forgone for another day that he would tackle for you. At the suggestion of his therapist, he tried to journal in the morning before the rush of three kids came clambering down the stairs. He was in his prime in the morning. At night he had time to wind down and enjoy your much-needed company. The morning was time for personal reflection.

So, when you wake to a darkened bedroom and the patter of rain on the windows, you curl into the warmth of the blankets and savor the blessed few minutes of extra sleep. But with the clock moving closer and closer to the start of the kids morning routine, you mewl with a languid stretch. Hands and feet reaching outwards until you suddenly collide with a solid figure. Curious fingers trace the mesh basketball shorts, skirting up to cool bare skin. Turning your head, your eyes open slowly.

"Babe?" your voice croaks with sleep.

Bucky turns his head just slightly and hums in question.

A yawn leeches itself from your throat, you curl closer to him, "What's up?"

Sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling over the side, face hidden by long brown hair. You reach out to tug at his arm, bring him back into the cocoon of blankets, but he grunts at the feeling.

"Babe?" you move up onto your elbows, brows pinched in concern.

He runs his right hand up and down his leg, left shoulder slumped down with the weight of the metal arm. The rain beats down on the roof like a military drum roll. And the fog clears from your mind.

"It's the weather, isn't it?" When he doesn't reply with more than a lowered head, you sit up fully in the bed.

Hands move slowly up to his shoulders, firm as you knead the tight skin. A groan falls like distant thunder as he relaxes into the touch. Slowing slightly, you drop a kiss below his right ear. Smoothing your hands down his arms and then his sides, you speak softly in the comfort of your bedroom, "It might help if you take it off."

Again, he doesn't reply. Seemingly lost in his own thoughts and pains. Another lazy kiss to his shoulder, you push gently, "Go take a shower. I'll wrangle up the monsters."

Slipping from the warmth of your bed, grabbing your robe from the door, you leave Bucky to make his own choice as you head for the kitchen to start the day.

Alpine greets you with a lazy chirp, circling your legs all the way to the kitchen where he plops down in front of his near-empty food dish. Yawning wide as you reach down to scratch behind his ears. You flip on the overhead light and are momentarily blinded by the bright fluorescents. The storm is picking up outside, rain coming down at a blistering rate, clouds heavy and gray. The entire yard drenched in a blinding haze.

The sound of a bedroom door creaking open starts the real beginnings of morning in the house. Unsurprisingly, it’s Gabriel who descends the stairs first. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair a ruffled mess as he pads into the kitchen in his pajamas. Squinting at the bright light overhead, contrasting the still dark and dreary world outside. He moves right to you, hands wrapping around your waist as he buries his head into your stomach for a slow morning hug. An easy smile makes its way across your tired face as you kiss the top of his head.

“Hey, bud. Sleep good?”

Not much for conversation before eight o’clock, he only nods into your robe.

You savor the affection for as long as you can before having to push him back with a gentle hand, voice warm as coffee, “Wanna help me make breakfast?”

He nods again, sleep pulling from his features as you move to the fridge. It’s decidedly a cinnamon rolls for breakfast kind of day.

With the premade sweets in the oven, Gabriel moves to the living room couch. Forcefully taking Alpine away from the kitchen rug, where he had been napping, to watch morning cartoons with him. After a timer is set, you head back up the stairs. The hall lights are low as you creep across the beige carpet at the top of the landing. Before you make it to the boy’s room, you hear the shower start in the master bath. Peering through the cracked door, you see Timothy asleep in his bed. Legs kicked out of his Mickey Mouse blanket, butt up in the air with his face turned to the side.

Deciding to let him catch a few more minutes, possibly for your own benefit of having a smoother transition to the rush at breakfast, you move down the hall to Rebecca’s room. You trek across the land mine of toys she had promised she would pick up yesterday, gently rubbing her back as you say, “Come on, sweetheart. Time to get up.”

She groans and in true fashion pulls the blankets over her head and rolls away from the disturbance. You have _ no _ idea where she gets that from.

It takes time, but she's finally coerced into getting up. You leave her to get dressed and have the time to get back to the kitchen before the timer starts ringing.

As the oldest two kiddos lick up bits of warm gooey rolls at the kitchen table, you brush and wrangle Becca’s hair into her desired look for the day. Who knew seven-year-olds could have such distinctive hairstyle opinions?

Where her brother is reserved in the morning, she is bubbly once she has her breakfast in hand. “I wanna wear the rainbow skirt because it matches my rain boots. Is my purple shirt clean yet? I wanna wear that too. Can I take my umbrella, mom? The kitty one with the sparkles?”

“If you can find it,” you grumble, dividing her hair up into parts for another braid.

As you reach for the purple hair bands she had chosen, the soft giggles and heavy steps on the stairs pull your attention away. Bucky comes into view with your two-year-old tucked into his chest. His right arm supporting the weight completely. And as he moves into the kitchen, you see the left sleeve of his olive green t-shirt has been tied up into a knot. Letting Timothy down to get into his designated chair, Bucky drops a gentle kiss to your neck.

“Thank you,” he murmurs breathily.

Your smile is warm and lazy like homemade breakfast, "Of course. Water's in the kettle." You lean up to place a kiss to his cheek before being pulled back to the kids.

As Bucky walks over to the stove where you already have a mug and selection of his usual teas out, Rebecca perks up, "Dad where's your arm?"

Gabe chides her before either of you can answer, "He doesn't always wear it, you dumb-dumb."

Redoing the pulled braid, you give him a good hard stare, "Do we call people that?"

He rescinds into his chair with a frustrated slouch, "_ No. _ But it's true."

"Mom!"

You smirk, glancing over at your husband who already seems lost in his thoughts again. It's going to be a long day. Before you can reply back to Rebecca's insistence for Gabe to apologize -

"Buddy!" You drop the loose braid to scoot around the table, pulling the massive gob of cinnamon roll from Timothy's hair. "What are we gonna do with you, huh?"

He giggles as you lick the icing from your hands. With a shake of your head, you finally return back to Rebecca to finish up her hair. Bucky silently sips his tea, content to lean against the counter for a little while longer. Alpine lounges at his bare feet, rolling on his back in an attempt to get pets. Bucky toes his white belly in quiet amusement.

With the three settled down into unhurried eating, you finally gain the lead as you pull out two lunch boxes. "What'll it be today? Cafe Mom is only open for the next five minutes, so place your orders and know that all choices are final."

The short-orders come in quick, muffled by food in their mouths.

"Do we have tacos?"

"I want a pizza!"

"Maybe a chicken wrap?"

"No, pizza bagels!"

You nod, brushing past Bucky to rummage through the fridge for the desired meals. You see him grimace slightly, trying to roll his left shoulder in vain. Pausing for a second as you spoon marinara sauce onto a plain bagel, "Heating pad?"

With a pained look on his face, he shakes his head. Eyes squeezed shut. Breathing pinched.

"Okay," you sigh, "But if you _ wanted _ one, it would be on the second shelf in the linen closet…"

As you finish up the meals and place them into blue Paw Patrol and pink unicorn lunch boxes, Bucky disappears down the hall. You think you hear the door to the linen closet open too.

Gabe finishes his breakfast in a rush, last bits of banana in his mouth as he runs for the stairs. Rebecca goes off in search of her umbrella, which you have a feeling will ultimately have you digging through the mess of her room to find. Wiping down Timothy's face and hair with a wet towel, you have him scooting off to the living room as well.

As cups and sticky dishes are moved into the sink, your phone vibrates on the counter. The answering text gives you a little pep in your step as you wipe the crumbs from the table.

"MOM!" You hear screamed down from your daughter's room.

Bucky emerges from the dark hallway, holding something behind his back. His face is sympathetic, "I'll watch Junior. Go on."

You circle your hands around his waist, head resting on his warm chest for just a single moment, "She wants that stupid cat umbrella. I'm out of energy for it already."

He nuzzles the top of your head with his nose, dropping a kiss to your forehead, "M'sorry, doll."

You lean away, fingers laced together on the small of his back, "Go sit down. We'll be around soon."

With a final lasting kiss to his soft lips, you head for the stairs.

Somehow, her room looks even worse than before. You lean in the doorway, unamused, "After school, this is what you're gonna be working on."

Crawling back out from under her bed, she gives an indignant glare and a frustrated whine, "But _ mom _!"

More than accustomed to her attitude at this point, holding almost eight years of it under your belt, you just shake your head, "You want my help or not, kiddo?"

It looks like she wants to fuss and complain, but she ultimately relents. You quickly find yourself wading through piles of toys and clothes and clutter. After five minutes, you send her off to get dressed and brush her teeth. On a hunch, you check the boy's room and find it sticking out of the pirate chest toy box at the end of Timothy's bed. You also grab a change of clothes for him before making your way back downstairs.

Bucky is slouched on the floor, back resting against the couch cushions, with a blue heating pad resting on his left shoulder. Timothy is scrabbling across his legs with excited laughter, completely oblivious to his father's discomfort as he plays his little game. Taking pity on the poor guy, you scoop up the rambunctious toddler and focus his attention on the tot-sized bookcase by the window.

Before you can head back to the kitchen, Bucky grabs your hand in his. Face pinched with traces of lingering pain, you run a gentle hand through the loose strands of hair falling across his brow. He kisses the back of your hand with the barest of touch, "Thank you."

You just shake your head with a small smile, "Of course, baby."

The rain has calmed to a sprinkle by the time you head out the door with Gabe and Becca. Droplets catching you all as you move from under the porch. Skin prickling with cool mist as you hurry to the car. The world is stuck in a foggy gray haze as you drive them off to school.

When you return home, Bucky is face down on the couch. Tim has pulled almost every book out from the large collection and has them organized in a giant circle around him, much to his excited glee.

Shutting the front door as quietly as you can, you crouch down next to your son and card a hand through his hair, "Very cool, bud. Can I change your diaper and get you dressed?"

He's reluctant, but you get him done up with only a few stray kicks to your stomach. Bucky doesn't even budge a muscle with all the noise. You send Timothy off to clean up his mess as you finish up in the kitchen. Tucking a few extra diapers into the bag, you grab his favorite stuffed whale as well. Better safe than sorry, of course.

Bucky nearly falls off the couch at the sound of a knock on the front door. Right hand scrambling for the small locked gun safe under the couch, but he stalls as you stride forward, unlocking the door and greeting your mom.

"Hey, mom," you pull her into a quick hug.

Bouncing up from his big yellow Tonka truck, Timothy runs forward, "Granma, granma!"

Your mom kneels down with her arms spread out to catch him in a hug. You watch Bucky struggle to sit up, looking incredibly small on the grey couch. Probably feeling a bit self conscious of his mother-in-law seeing him in his current state. Expertly holding your mom's attention away from him, you hold out the diaper bag.

"He's all set, lunch is packed up. Try and have him down for a nap at one if you can."

She stands up with a little difficulty, holding his hand in hers, "We'll be fine. I have some ideas for this guy. Storytime at the library. Maybe a movie if we're feeling up for it. They've had great reviews on the new _ Toy Story _ movie. But don't worry about a thing." She lays a hand on your arm, "Oh! And I have the car seat all set up from last time too. Just text me and we'll head back your way whenever you're ready."

After getting his little dinosaur hoodie on, you give him a gentle push towards Bucky, who still looks entirely confused about the whole situation.

"Bye-bye!" He tucks his nose into his dad's chest.

Bucky kisses his head, arm wrapped around his little shoulders, "Have fun, buddy."

And like that, the two are heading out the door with your mom telling Bucky to _ feel better! _ You wave them goodbye and watch her car drive down the long muddy driveway before finally closing the door. Shyly, you turn back to look at your husband.

"_What? _"

Giving a small laugh, you move to join him on the couch. Hands resting on his shoulders, fingers digging into the tense muscles. "Thought you could use a child-free day to deal with all this."

His eyes close as he leans his head back against you. "You're too good to me," he purrs.

Moving both hands to his left shoulder, you gently massage the scar site, dropping kisses to his neck as you go. "Just wish there was more I could do." Fingers rubbing up and over the nub, digging in under his armpit and down his side.

A moment passes before you softly inquire, "Anything I can get you?"

He shakes his head slowly. You feel him relax into your touch. Kneading his lats carefully, feeling the ripple of tension with each press.

"You sure?" you persist. "Tylenol? More tea? Anything at all, babe, anything."

Another shake of the head followed by a firm: "No," and then a softer, pleading, "Just… stay with me?"

Even though he can't see it, you give a little nod. Placing a long kiss to his forehead as you wrap your arms around his middle, hands resting on his stomach. "Course, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted on my [Tumblr](https://ussgalifreyfics.tumblr.com).


End file.
